


My Heart Needs A Holiday

by twocrabs



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dancing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff For Fucking DAYS, Jewelry Fixation, M/M, Neckwear Fixation, Post-4.13 Fix-It, Weddings, [Waves hands around and solves everything off-screen], a weekend on the connecticut shoreline is exactly what these two need, but what do you expect, there's only one bed, to be fair there are a couple feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-30 01:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19032214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twocrabs/pseuds/twocrabs
Summary: “Well,” Quentin began, fast, his hands on his knees. “Julia has been my standing plus-one for formal events since we were like, eleven, because she’s like, really good at them and I’m not really, and my whole family really likes her and everything but, uh, she’s busy next Saturday with Kady doing some hedgewitch...organizational….stuff, right—and like, I forgot to ask her about this until yesterday anyway because to be honest it kinda slipped my mind between school stuff and life stuff and, you know, uh, stuff—and I think it would be kinda….difficult to ask Alice at this point, right?—but I really don’t want to go solo to something like this, especially since I like, dropped off the grid for like—”“Q?”Quentin sighed. “My cousin is getting married and I need a date?” He smiled a guilty grimace of a smile, and shrugged. “To the wedding, I mean.”(Or: Everything Is Totally Normal.)





	My Heart Needs A Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> This got away from me in a massive way and it's really just some feel-good fluff but I had an absolute blast writing it and I hope it makes someone out there smile a little!
> 
> Once again thank you to Emma for being my muse and also dialogue-improv partner.

“Hey, quick question.” Eliot was sitting on the couch in the cottage living room, one leg propped up on the coffee table, just barely focused on the book in his lap. It was thick and dusty looking; something esoteric in Sumerian for that degree Fogg refused to just  _ give them _ despite, well, everything. Quentin cleared his throat. “Got a sec?” 

Eliot looked up at him, his eyebrows raised, as Quentin perched on the edge of the couch.

“I need….a favor.”

“Okay?” And Eliot dog-eared his page, and closed the book. 

“Well,” Quentin began, fast, his hands on his knees. “Julia has been my standing plus-one for formal events since we were like, eleven, because she’s like, really good at them and I’m not really, and my whole family really likes her and everything but, uh, she’s busy next Saturday with Kady doing some hedgewitch...organizational….stuff, right—and like, I forgot to ask her about this until yesterday anyway because to be honest it kinda slipped my mind between school stuff and life stuff and, you know, uh, stuff—and I think it would be kinda…. _ difficult _ to ask Alice at this point, right?—but I really don’t want to go solo to something like this, especially since I like, dropped off the grid for like—”

“Q?” 

Quentin sighed. “My cousin is getting married and I need a date?” He smiled a guilty grimace of a smile, and shrugged. “To the wedding, I mean.”

“Yeah, no, got that, um.” Eliot set the book down on the coffee table, yawned, stretched, and draped his arms over the back of the couch. The tips of his fingers nearly reached Quentin’s shoulder, but not quite. Quentin glanced at them, tucking his arm closer into his side.  “Next Saturday, you said?” 

“Yeah, the eighteenth?” Quentin, still smiling, tentative. 

“Where?” 

“Uh, somewhere in Connecticut? A country club in Greenwich, I think?” He would have forgotten about the whole thing if he hadn’t put it in his phone’s calendar. A good habit he had established once that petered out in recent months

At this Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Wait.  _ A _ country club  _ in _ Greenwich or  _ The _ Greenwich Country Club?”

“I don’t know, does it matter?” 

“Uh, yeah, it matters. I crashed  _ plenty _ of events at generic country clubs in college, okay, but never  _ The Greenwich Country _ —oh my god.” Eliot squinted at him and grinned. “Quentin Coldwater do you come from wasps?” 

Quentin rolled his eyes. “No, I—”

“You do, you’re a little bit waspy, aren’t you?” 

“My dad’s sister married into wasps, okay, we were never—” Eliot chuckled. “—I’ve never even been to Greenwich, okay?”

“Sure, sure, okay, whatever you say, prep-school—”

“I went to public school for all twelve years and you know that!” A genuine smile now. “So do you want to come or not?” Eliot paused, narrowed his eyes. Quentin could tell he was thinking, and braced himself for the blow of a ‘no.’ 

“I don’t know. Is your family going to be disappointed that you dumped Julia for some….tall, dark stranger?” 

Quentin blinked at him. “Oh! No, they never—they knew that we were just, you know—sure some people  _ thought _ maybe, but—” Eliot was just watched him, and Quentin could feel his cheeks get warm. “Besides, my family is like, super chill about pretty much everything—not that they would assume that we were, like—” He waved his hand back and forth between them. “You know, anyway. So. It’ll be totally cool and. And—” Running out of air, Quentin took a deep breath. “And like. I mean  _ she— _ oh boy, you wanna talk about waspy? Now Julia is waspy, okay? Her folks, uh, wow! But—”

“Q, I’m kidding.” And Eliot reached out that last inch or so to shut Quentin up with a tap of his fingers on his shoulder. “I’d love to come. Any excuse to be real people for a weekend, right?” 

Quentin’s face only got hotter.

“Yeah! Totally! Great. That’s great. Cool. I will figure out which country club in Greenwich it is and get you the whole….Protocol. And we will go to my cousin’s wedding and be real people and not. Be here.” 

“Thank god.” Eliot flipped his book back open to where he had left off. 

“Thank god!” And Quentin disappeared out of the room. 

\- 

They portaled in from the Cottage to the Manhattan apartment, and took an early afternoon train up the coast and out of the city. The wedding did, in fact, turn out to be at _The_ Greenwich Country Club, a fact that thrilled Eliot so deeply Quentin thought he was going to pop. Quentin wore the only suit he owned and a borrowed a tie from him, but Eliot had hemmed and hawed over vests and cravats and shoes and pocket squares and various other accoutrements for days. It was nice, Quentin thought, watching Eliot polish his shoes before they left that morning, to see him get distracted by such a normal thing for a while.

So they were wildly overdressed for a 2:18pm northbound out of Grand Central, but it was a clear and breezy Saturday in May, and they both felt a sense of peace that they hadn’t in a lifetime. It had been just over four months since the monster was dealt with, and just over three since Quentin was spat back out of the underworld and onto the front lawn of Brakebills, dazed and confused and delirious and dehydrated, with “RETURN TO SENDER” stamped in red ink on his forehead. For a single, precarious breath, there were no imminent threats, no political upheavals, no one to save. Just finals, and a familial obligation. 

They sat facing each other on the train, watching the water out the windows. Quentin gnawed on a Zaro’s  bagel and scrolled through his phone, his knee bouncing like it did sometimes when he had been sitting for too long. Eliot nursed a coffee while flipping through an Entertainment Weekly someone had left on the seat. It was calming, to do something so natural and human and  _ normal _ and—

Quentin pulled up the website for the event for the third time that hour, compulsively checking the time. And then he frowned, and sat up straight. “I’ve never been to a wedding.”  An almost comforting anxiety bubbled up in his stomach. 

“Oh c’mon.” Eliot sipped his coffee, and lifted his left hand, waving his fingers. “You went to mine.” He shrugged, scoffed. “And  _ yours _ .” 

Quentin craned his neck and looked around the traincar, then leaned forward, whispering. “Okay, yours was a shotgun magically-prophesied arranged marriage at  _ knifepoint—”  _ He remembered it like it was yesterday. Fen was still mousy and unsure, Eliot still drug-addled and despondent. “—And we were all….waist-deep in the river at mine…for some reason.” He remembered that one less clearly, apart from the icy water and the rough rocks under his feet and Ari’s hands in his. “I mean, like….on earth. Like a normal, regular person, earth wedding.” 

“I hate to break it to you but we’re not going to a normal person wedding today, either. Judging by their registry alone this event is going to be at least half a dozen tax-brackets above normal.” 

“You know what I mean, though.” 

“Yes, yes, I know. Relax. You’re….properly attired, you got them a gift, you RSVP’d on time—” A beat. “You did get them a gift, right?” 

“Yeah, no, I think I got them a toaster oven?”

“You  _ think _ ?” 

“Yeah, I don’t know, it was like a year and a half ago!” 

Eliot shook his head, smiling. “Okay. Now I said relax,” And he put his empty coffee cup down on the floor under his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s just a party. You already know half the people there. There’s going to be cake and an open bar and then we’ll hop back on the train home. No sweat.” Quentin’s brow dropped, and Eliot looked at him, frustrated. “What now?”

“Um, actually. Shit. Uh. My cousin got most of the family rooms. At the place. For the night. Sorry I forgot to tell you, and—shit, I didn’t bring a toothbrush or anything.” Eliot’s eyes widened. “You probably want to get back to campus tonight, right?—like I totally get it if—”

Eliot put a hand on Quentin’s knee, and dug his nails into his pant leg. “We’ll get you a fucking toothbrush. Now please, please, refrain from barfing your anxiety all over my nice Connecticut country club weekend, ‘kay?”

-

There weren’t as many people in attendance as either of them expected. The bride’s side was mostly family and close friends, with almost no one Quentin didn’t recognize, and the groom’s side was just as sparse. 

“Do you think this was an...executive choice?” Eliot asked, leaning into Quentin’s ear as they sat down in the second to last row. “I can’t tell if this is exclusive or….sad.” It was an outdoor ceremony (“Ballsy”, Eliot had commented.) on the lawn behind the club. They faced a gazebo, under which sat a string quartet and a minister of indeterminate denomination. The gathered attendants took their seats in rows of upholstered folding chairs, while a handful of immaculately dressed children ran giggling around the lawn. Swaths of green and white flowers dripped off of every surface and climbed the gazeob’s uprights, and the sun, just barely setting, glittered on the surface of the lake behind it all. 

“I mean Tiff and I aren’t exactly close, but I don’t remember her sweet sixteen being much of a rager either.” Quentin shrugged, tugged at his collar, shifted in his seat. Tugged again. “I mean it  _ was _ on a yacht docked by their beach house. So that was cool. But I was twelve and I got invited so she must have needed to uh. Fill it out the guest list.”  

“Hmm. That’s kinda sweet.” 

“Yeah. She let me do card tricks for her friends.” Quentin smiled, remembering. “And then my aunt— _ she’s _ the wasp, alright?—got me a ginger ale and sat with me on the deck when I got seasick.” 

“You got seasick on docked boat?” 

“I dunno. Could’ve been the, like, four hundred pizza rolls I ate.”

Eliot smiled, and then they sat there, the sun on their faces and the smell of freshly cut grass in the air. Slowly, the rows in front of them filled with people, and the sound of excited, familial chatting surrounded them. 

“I feel like an asshole,” Quentin said, fussing with the undone top button of his shirt.

“Yeah, why today?” Eliot’s head was leaned far off the back of his chair, and his eyes were closed as the breeze blew strands of hair into his face.

“Because, I mean. Look at all this. I  _ missed _ this.” 

“The trappings of the New England uppercrust?” 

Quentin scoffed. “No, come on. I mean, like. Family, I guess? Like I like these people. And, at least the last time I knew it, some of them liked me too—ah man _ — _ ” And he popped his collar, loosening his tie. “I mean I was so out of it at Dad’s funeral I couldn’t even tell you who was there—and then I just fell off the face of the earth.” The tie got looser, the button still putting up a fight. “Oh my god. They probably thought I was dead.” 

Eliot sighed, sitting up. “I’ll remind you that you were, a little, actually. Now would you come here,” and he tapped Quentin’s lapel with the back of his hand. Quentin turned towards him, and lifted his chin as Eliot fiddled with the knot of his tie. “What matters is that you’re here now. No one has shunned you or disowned you or….run you off the property with pitchforks, okay?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” And Quentin’s brow furrowed, before catching the eye of an old woman in an enormous hat, tottering across the lawn. She waved at him, and winked. 

Quentin faced forward. 

“Aunt Lou spotted. Oh god.” 

“What?” Eliot tweaked Quentin’s pocket square. Quentin batted his hand away.

“Uh, Great Aunt Louisa is not  _ technically _ related to anyone here but she’s also like a hundred and fifty years old and rich as shit and never had kids so—”

“Got it. Is she gonna be a problem?” 

“Oh, no! God, please that would be too easy. No no no no no, uh. She loves me, for some reason. And she really likes Julia a lot—so I usually let them talk, right?—but she’s been trying to set me up with anyone with a pulse for like ten years and—”

“How progressive.” 

Quietly, through his teeth, “Yeah, well, she just saw you with your hands all over me and—”

“That’s a little hyperbolic, Q, I was fixing your tie—”

“That’s  _ boyfriend _ behavior, El, she’s gonna get—Oh my god!  _ Hi  _ Aunt Lou!” 

She stood in the row behind them, and Quentin nearly jumped as she slapped a bony hand on each of their shoulders. 

“Quentin, dear. How are you? Where have you been? Where’s Julia?” she asked rapidly, in a reedy voice with an accent like Jackie O. “Who’s this?” 

“Uh, Julia is very busy….with her….um….” Quentin floundered, his mouth dry.

“Postgraduate research,” Eliot supplied, standing, like a gentleman. “She’s stuck upstate, unfortunately. Undoubtedly holed up in some library on this gorgeous day. It’s a tragedy.” Quentin watched him, clearly in his wheelhouse, maneuver Aunt Lou’s hand off his shoulder and into his own. The cadence of his voice shifted to match hers. 

“What a pity….” she said, giving Eliot an unabashed once-over. She had to crane her head to look up at him, the top of her hat just higher than his elbow. “An absolute….crying shame.” 

“Yes,” and Quentin stood, too. “Research. Um. Yeah. This is Eliot. A, uh, friend of mine from grad school.” 

Aunt Lou narrowed her eyes and smiled. Patted the top of Eliot’s hand. Looked to Quentin, then back. “Friends. Yes. Of course. Friends like you and Julia, dear?” 

Quentin sighed, smiled. “Yes. Exactly like me and Julia, Aunt Lou.” Eliot’s face never wavered from his genteel grin, but Quentin could see his jaw working, and knew he was trying very hard to stay quiet.

“Well.” Suddenly her focus was elsewhere, another cluster of young people caught in her crosshairs. She dropped Eliot’s hands, hoisted her purse up on her shoulder, and poked Quentin in the chest. “Work on that.” And then she was tottering away across the grassy aisle towards the groom’s side.

Quentin collapsed back into his chair and rubbed his face, his ears red. Eliot sat back down next to him, crossed his legs, and slung an arm around Quentin’s shoulders. “I like her,” he said, smiling, and Quentin sighed. 

“Of course you do.” 

“No, I’m serious. If the rest of your family is half as charming as she is—”

“She’s mortifying.” 

“She’s adorable.” 

“She’s shameless.”

“She makes a good point.” 

“She always—what? She made no  _ points _ . What are you talking about?” 

Eliot thumbed at the shoulder seam of Quentin’s suit jacket, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. “No one is going to believe you when you say I’m your friend.” 

“It’s true!” 

“Listen,  _ I _ know that. And  _ you _ know that. But you’ve been bringing pretty platonic little Julia to these sorts of get-togethers for your whole life and suddenly….now you’re not?” Quentin tried to relax, but was hyper aware of every place Eliot was touching him. Hand on shoulder. Arm around his neck.  Knee to knee. “Besides,” And Eliot leaned his face into Quentin’s collar, whispering, so he could feel his breath on his ear. “Haven’t you always wanted to fuck with your family a little bit?” 

Quentin sat up straight as the quartet began to play. “No, actually, I haven’t.” 

“Huh. Can’t relate.” 

“I’m not gonna lie to everyone here.” 

“Don’t, then. Just let them assume what they want. Improv rules, you know. Just ‘yes, and’ them.” 

The minister approached the microphone in the center of the gazebo and tapped it twice, and the quartet paused for a moment, before transitioning into Canon in D. The groom emerged and took his place at the end of the aisle. Everyone stood up. 

“Please,” Quentin whispered over his shoulder, everyone hushed as the wedding party began down the aisle. “Don’t make this weird.” 

“No promises.” 

-

The ceremony was short and sweet, and Tiffany looked lovely and her groom looked like he was going to cry the whole time. But everyone kept it together, save for a whining ring-bearer, and the quartet played them off, and then there was the exodus across the lawn and back into the clubhouse. 

The brief walk was a virtual parade of well meaning relatives. 

Cousins, aunts, uncles, godparents, a slew of family friends—greeted Quentin like he’d been declared missing for the last eighteen months, which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth. It was roughly the same conversation every time: “Quentin, long time, no see! We must catch up inside!” or “Good to see you, dear. You’ll have to introduce me to your date later!” but it was all so warm and genuine and  _ normal _ that they were both overwhelmed by the time they made it to the reception. 

“How did you never tell me your family was so….invested? In you?” Eliot asked, quietly, at the back of the line to greet newly married couple. “It’s not  _ your _ goddamn wedding.” 

“I told you, everyone is really cool and I’m an asshole—oh god—what am I going to tell them? I missed some important birthdays in the last year and I don’t think ‘saving a magical realm’ is going to go over super well—I couldn’t even come up with where Julia was and—”

“Hey,” And Eliot grabbed Quentin’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Don’t worry about it. You are responsible for maintaining exactly one falsehood tonight.”

Quentin flexed his hand, but Eliot didn’t loosen his grip. “I told you—”

“Yes, and  _ I’m _ telling  _ you _ . I will construct as many layered and intricate lies as necessary to satiate your lovely family.” 

Quentin exhaled. “Oh my god thank you—”

“ _ If _ ….”  

“If?” He held his breath again.

“If you just….” Eliot leaned into his shoulder, smiling, pleading. “Play along.” Squeezed his hand again. “Be my arm candy for the evening.” 

“Hey, you’re  _ my _ date.” 

“Fine, then just  _ let me be _ .” And Eliot dropped Quentin’s hand for a moment, and slid the silver band off of his ring finger. “What Fen doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Can’t let them think you’re the other woman.” 

“I mean I kind of am.” 

“You kind of are. Even though that’s  _ definitely _ not legally binding in the state of Connecticut.” And he turned his palm back up, and Quentin took his hand, relaxing, conceding. “So. I’ll lie for you. And you’ll lie….for us?” 

“Yeah. Okay. Fine.” Quentin took a deep breath. “Brace yourself.” 

“Oh don’t be so dramatic—”

“Oh my god! Q!” And Tiffany, a vision in white organza, spotted them at the end of the line. Several middle aged couples were shoved unceremoniously out of the way as she shuffled past them, skirt rustling, arms open, making a beeline for the two of them. 

“Holy shit.” Eliot took a step to the side, making room for the bride as she wrapped Quentin in an almost violent bear hug, practically squealing as she thumped him on the back, her veil in his face. Quentin only held onto his hand tighter. 

“Q”—and the way she said it made it two syllables:  _ kuh-you! _ —“Oh my  _ fucking _ god—” She pulled away from him, her hands on his shoulders. She was taller than him in her heels, and there were sprigs of baby’s breath braided into her hair. “Where the fuck have you been?” And then her eyes fell to his arm, and followed it back up to Eliot’s face. “And who the fuck is this?” 

“Uh—” Quentin darted a glance at Eliot, and saw, almost instantaneously, his face settle into that placid, friendly, performance-ready smile. 

“I told you that deleting your Facebook would get people worried, dear.” And Eliot, smooth, natural, put his free hand on Quentin’s lapel. “Especially when you travel as much as you do.” 

Tiffany smiled, curious, completely absorbed by Eliot’s….everything. “Traveling? Are you still working on your….phd, yeah?” 

“Yeah—yeah, exactly. I’ve been. Uh—”

“Oh, god, where to even  _ start _ ? Was it Tibet, first?” Eliot looked down at him, grinning.

“Yes!” Quentin nodded, small and fast. “I was in Tibet. Doing research….on the philosophical interactions between Xi Jinping thought and more traditional—”

Tiffany smiled and nodded back at him, faster. “That’s just fascinating, Q, really, but. Um. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your date?” 

By then Tiffany’s new husband—Rick?—had finished greeting all of the snubbed relatives, and was coming to collect his wife. 

“Right, uh, sorry, yeah. Tiff, uh, this is Eliot.” Quentin swallowed, and Tiffany binked at him. “My boyfriend.” 

\- 

They were sat at a table in the corner of the ballroom with three other couples—some of Rick’s college friends and their respective partners—who greeted them genially and then disappeared for the rest of the night. The food was, of course, excellent, and when it was clear that the college friends had abandoned their plates, Quentin and Eliot took it upon themselves to sample the beef and vegetarian offerings that would have otherwise gone cold. 

And then the cake was cut—an outrageous, six-tiered monstrosity of fondant and sugar flowers—and the newlyweds danced—meticulously choreographed to something by the Decemberists—and the party began in earnest.

They had barely made it three steps in the direction of the bar before Quentin was seized by the shoulders from behind, and spun around, his face pressed into the front of a well-tailored grey suit by yet another forceful hug.

“Hi Cousin Kay,” he mumbled, his mouth full of fabric. 

“Quentin, I swear to god—!” and she stepped back to put her hands on his cheeks, her thick Brooklyn accent bracing and familiar. Quentin had to look up to meet her eye.

“—You don’t answer my emails, I didn’t get a Christmas card, I don’t think I even have your phone number anymore—” 

“Sorry, I’ve been, really busy, with school stuff, and—this is—”

“I sent flowers to the house after the funeral—I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it, your dad was a good man he deserved so much more—” her hands moved from his face to his shoulders and back in a nurturing flurry. 

“Thank you, yeah, Kay, I appreciate that, I’ve just been kinda—occupied, with—”

“Teaching,” And Eliot finally stepped in, reaching a hand out between Quentin and his cousin. “In the Congo.” She took it, and then Eliot was trapped in a bone-crushing handshake. 

Kay stared at Quentin, hand still wrapped around Eliot’s. “Who’s this, now? Where’s Julia?” 

Eliot wrenched his hand free, shook it out, and placed it on Quentin’s shoulder. “God, babe, I’m starting to get jealous. You didn’t tell me Julia was  _ this _ popular with the Coldwater clan.” 

“Oh, yeah. Julia had a thing in the city today. Um. This is Eliot. We’ve been together for a couple minutes— _ months! _ ” Quentin laughed, nervous, and Kay squinted at him. “Months. We’ve been dating for a couple months.” 

A pause. And then Kay threw her arms around Eliot, too. 

“I’m going to go get us some drinks.  _ Babe _ .” And Quentin disappeared towards the bar. 

And so the night proceeded.

“—No no no,  _ I _ was the one in prison—” Eliot grabbed a champagne flute from a passing server and handed it to Quentin, who was standing uncomfortably between him and the latest in an unending barrage of concerned and curious older women. The most recent aunt was completely taken with the story, as they had all been, mouth agape and head shaking. “—For political reasons. In Hungary. But you know Q. Ever the hero.” And Eliot wrapped his arm around Quentin’s waist, pulling him close. “I was only supposed to be in there for a year—which, like, whatever, right?” —the aunt gasped and Quentin downed the champagne in a single gulp— “But he just had to come bail me out, right sweetheart?” 

And then later—

“So what do you do for a living, young man?” A burly great-uncle was interrogating Eliot when Quentin found him again, a gin and tonic in each hand.

“I’m the royal attaché for the queen of a small developing nation and her lady in waiting.” There was a distinctly mid-Atlantic affect to Eliot’s voice. Quentin bit his tongue, stifling a laugh, and handed him one of the drinks. “It’s a thankless job but someone has to keep the royals entertained. Her highness does let me bring Q along more often than not, so it’s not all bad, is it honey?” 

Quentin just nodded, nose deep in his highball glass. The uncle, unwavering: “And how the hell did you meet our Quentin?” 

“Starbucks!” Quentin nearly shouted, coming up for air, coughing. “Our drinks got mixed up at a Starbucks and...voila!” Quentin patted Eliot on the back. 

Eliot and the uncle both blinked at him. 

“Oh. Well. Good on you.” And the uncle followed a platter of crudites away across the room, but not before Eliot handed him his untouched gin and tonic. 

“You’re not even trying anymore.” Quentin said, elbowing Eliot in the ribs and chuckling once they were out of earshot. “That last one was all basically true.” 

“I beg your pardon, my wife is  _ not _ Margo’s lady in waiting. They have a perfectly equitable relationship. Anyway you’re trying  _ too _ hard. I was going to tell him we met on Grindr.” 

Quentin laughed again, leaning his forehead head on Eliot’s arm, feeling giddy from their secret, and the gin. “If you think Uncle Bill knows what Grindr is—” 

“Oh holy fuck.” And Eliot turned suddenly, rattling Quentin, sloshing his drink. “Jesus Christ, Coldwater, get your act together.  _ Look _ .” He nodded back towards the bar. 

“You’re the one that made me spill—”

“Oh my god, shut up, _shut up_ for like two seconds. That guy.” He nodded again. “Green tie. Brogues. Soft eyes.” 

Quentin stood up on his toes to see over Eliot’s shoulder. “There’s two guys with green ties at the bar.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake—the blonde one!” 

There was only one blonde guy with a green tie at the bar, and he was standing there, hands in his pockets, while the bartender pulled him a beer. 

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Please tell me you’re not related to him.”

“No, he’s gotta be with the groom, I guess. Why?” 

Eliot stood in front of Quentin, squared his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles in the space between them. “Sorry,” he said, his hands moving in a series of not unfamiliar gestures. “But I need you sober for this.” 

“Do  _ not _ do magic in the middle of—” But then Quentin’s ears were buzzing, and then there was a pain between his eyes, and then several glasses of very nice champagne and very okay gin were suddenly all for naught. He blinked and shook his head, his eyes watering. “I hate when you do that.” 

“Yeah well I hate running into an ex unexpectedly, and I would  _ particularly _ hate for my fake boyfriend to be drunk when I introduced them.” 

Quentin flexed his jaw, trying to pop his ears, but only ended up making himself yawn. “Wait,  _ what _ ?” 

Eliot looked panicky. “There’s like eight people here; how the  _ fuck _ did we miss him at the ceremony?” And he took the glass out of Quentin’s hand, and downed it. 

“Hey how come you—”

“Okay, shut up. Here’s the plan. Just….do what I’ve been doing all night, right?” Eliot reached out, straightened Quentin’s tie, smoothed his hair. “We’re both very impressive, creative, attractive people and I have every bit of faith in your ability to lie straight to that man’s face.” He turned slightly, and tensed. 

“Uh, I dunno—”

“Too late, we’ve been spotted.” Eliot smiled like he was being threatened, and raised a hand in the air. “If you let go of me for any reason I will fillet you like a fish in front of your entire family, got it?” 

“Alright—” 

They crossed the room, arm in arm, and sidled up to the bar next to the blonde man with the brogues and the green tie. He smiled, wide and white, his eyes as soft as Eliot said. 

“Vance McGrath, small fucking world.” Eliot cocked his head and licked his lips in that way he did when he was laying it on extra thick, and Quentin bit his tongue. 

“Oh my god.” Vance was taller than the both of them and built like a football player, but his words came out small and breathy, and Quentin could see him blushing. “Eliot….hi. How are you?”

Eliot set his shoulders, relaxed a little. Vance was star-struck, and he could tell. “I’m just great, how are  _ you _ ? How do you know the happy couple?” 

“Um.” His beer was sweating in his hand. “My girlfriend is in Rick’s golfing league. How do you—”

Eliot was pressing his elbow into Quentin’s ribs. “Hi!” and it came out louder than he wanted it to, taking both Vance and Eliot by surprise. Quentin cleared his throat, offered a hand. “Hi. I’m uh, the bride’s cousin.” Vance shook his hand. “Quentin. Nice to meet you.”

“Q, this is Vance. We were roommates my freshman year at Hofstra for what, not even a semester before you moved into the pi kappa house?” 

“It was….a semester and a half.” Vance was still shaking Quentin’s hand, still looking at Eliot. 

“Was it? Hm.”—Quentin could tell from the upswing in his voice that Eliot knew, for a fact, that it was—”Time flies. So what have you been up to?” 

“Oh, um. I’m working at my father’s firm.” He finally released Quentin’s hand, and struggled, for a moment, to put it back in his pocket, missing the first few times. Quentin coughed. 

“How exciting. Oh! Where are my manners?” Eliot shifted, leaning his perfect contrapposto lean away from Quentin, to place a hand on his chest. “Vance, Quentin and I met at grad school, and we just got engaged this winter.” 

Quentin watched Vance go stiff and colorless at the exact same moment that he felt the blood rush out of his own face. What followed were two excruciatingly silent seconds, the three of them glancing at each other like they were at a shootout and Eliot was the only person with a real gun. 

Vance opened his mouth, and closed it, and opened it again. “That’s.” He coughed, took a swig of his beer. “Congrats, Waugh, I—” And he jumped, as a petite woman in a blindingly pink dress grabbed him by the arm. 

“You gotta come watch me catch the bouquet, babe!” She smiled at the two of them, and waved politely, and tugged once again on her boyfriend’s sleeve. 

“Yeah, okay, I’m coming.” And Vance smiled his broad, white, smile at the two of them one last time, before being dragged away. 

A pause, and then Quentin was also being dragged away in the opposite direction by a maniacally  cackling Eliot. 

“Holy shit, that was amazing,” Eliot said, once they were out of the crowd around the bar.  

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck did you do to that guy?” 

“Anything and  _ everything _ .” They looked over their shoulders, and Eliot smirked, as a bright pink dress emerged squealing from a mass of cheering women, bouquet in hand.

“God, he looked like he was gonna puke.”

“Do  _ not _ feel bad for Vance, alright? No one gets to sleep with me for half a year then turn around and pull a no-homo once they pledge their fancy frat. I am no one’s secret, dirty or not.” 

“No fucking kidding. But—Jesus—engaged?  _ Seriously _ ?”

“Oh, you know me. Too competitive for my own good. Now c’mon. That was exhausting.” 

They weaved between tables and groups of chatting relatives, Quentin still leaning into Eliot’s side as they walked, arm wrapped around his. Across the ballroom, the band—the quartet from the ceremony plus about six pieces—played something jazzy and up-tempo. 

“They’re going to start talking to each other, you know.” Quentin said, once they were seated back at their table.

“Who?”

“Everybody. My family. Vance, probably. Everyone gossips.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about Vance.” 

“Okay, but everyone else—”

“And? Worst case scenario they think your boyfriend-slash- _secret_ _fiance_ is an absolute laugh riot of a storyteller.” Eliot picked at the half-eaten slice of cake in front of him. “Besides, when am I ever going to see these people again?”

“I don’t know.” Quentin sipped at his water from dinner, the ice all melted. “I’m sure they’ll be a baby shower or something this summer.” He chuckled. “Or, uh. Aunt Lou’s bicentennial.” 

Eliot smiled, small and to himself, then looked down at his cake. “You can have Julia back for those. I think your family missed her more than you.” 

“Yeah. She’s pretty great.” Another sip. Quentin propped his chin up in his hands. “Not nearly as much fun, though. As making stuff up.”

“Oh that’s really nice, Q. Your life-long best friend isn’t as fun at parties as lying to your family about your fake boyfriend?” 

“Fiance.”

“Really, very classy.” 

“Sorry. It sucks. I’m still an asshole. But it’s true.” And Quentin turned to look at Eliot, still forking the fondant left on his plate. “I’m having a really good time.” 

“Me too.” 

“I didn’t think I would—or….could, I guess?” He swallowed, rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know how—I didn’t think you’d come, for starters.” Quentin looked down, and began trying to fish the lemon seeds out of his water with a spoon. 

Eliot dropped his fork and pushed the plate into the middle of the table, and they both grimaced as the edge of it clinked against the centerpiece—a boulder of a bouquet, all white hydrangeas and ferns. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“I don’t know. You know. Things have been…weird, right?” Quentin reached for his napkin, wiped his hands, twisted his fingers in it. “Like. I don’t know who’s fault—not that it’s anyone’s fault, really—but I was so sure—”

“ _ Alright everybody _ ….” And the entire room groaned as the sound of feedback peeled out from the microphone propped up on the keyboard. “We’re gonna slow it down a bit now.” The voice was deep and smoky and exactly what anyone would expect from a jazz pianist. “These next few songs….are for the  _ lovers, new and old. _ ” 

Quentin watched as Tiffany and Rick—and then a smattering of other married couples, mostly—all took their places on the dance floor. Eliot shrugged his jacket off onto the back of his chair, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Scoffing, he folded his hands behind his head, and propped a leg up on Quentin’s lap. “I don’t know if there’s anything less romantic than being told—” and he froze, a bony hand once again on his shoulder.

“I’m stealing him,” Aunt Lou announced, tugging on Eliot’s collar. She was, alarmingly, wearing a different dress, and was completely oblivious to Eliot’s protests. “If you’re not going to make a move, Quentin dear, I will.” 

Quentin sat, open-mouthed and head in hands, as Eliot stood from the table, wide-eyed, and was lead to the dancefloor by the wrist. Aunt Lou couldn’t reach his shoulder, so she wrapped a wiry arm around his middle and leaned her cheek on his chest as they swayed back and forth. 

Eliot looked back at him, and shrugged, and smiled, and Quentin couldn’t help but smile, too. The music was familiar in the way that all old dance songs are, and the lights were dimmed so the candles on each of the tables washed the room in a flickering warmth. Two tables over, the ring-bearer was asleep in his father’s lap, thumb in his mouth, frosting on both of their ties. Looking at them made something in his chest ache. 

And then his attention was drawn back to the dancefloor by Eliot’s snorting laugh, and from across the room Quentin could see Aunt Lou talking, still clinging to Eliot like a life preserver, clearly in the middle of a deeply entertaining story. So he watched them for a little longer—Aunt Lou craning her neck up so far it looked painful, gesticulating with the hand at the small of Eliot’s back—Eliot laughing, looking shocked, shaking his head. Something about it felt so  _ right _ , Quentin realized, the coming together of these disparate worlds, the sense of being closer than ever to having all of his important things under one roof. 

So finally, as the first song was coming to a close, Quentin stood, straightened his tie, and crossed the room towards the dance floor. 

“What’s so funny over here?” he asked, hands in his pockets, as Aunt Lou looked up at him. 

“The bride has a mouth like a sailor, apparently,” and Eliot’s head lolled to look at him. 

“Also her husband is an idiot,” Aunt Lou supplied, and Eliot had to bite his tongue. “Not like you boys. Getting your masters, good job. Rick has no ambition and I told Tiffany that when he proposed.” 

There was a moment of awkward silence between songs, as Aunt Lou refused to let go of Eliot’s hand, and Quentin shuffled his feet next to them. 

“Uh,” Quentin started, as the music picked up again. “Do you mind if I, uh. Cut in?” 

“Oh!” And Aunt Lou stepped back abruptly, both hands now on Eliot’s hips. “Dear, I thought you’d never ask!” And then she made a show out of looking at a watch she wasn’t wearing, and yawned theatrically. “But I simply couldn’t stay on my feet another minute. Here—” She grabbed Quentin by the lapel and pulled him to where she had been standing. “You can have my partner instead.” 

And she faded into the crowd, worming between couples, without so much as a goodnight. 

Quentin and Eliot stood, inches apart, marveling at her exit for a moment, before turning to look at each other. Instinctively, they both reached towards the other’s waist. 

“Uh, sorry, um.” Quentin pulled his hands back, making fists, and then shaking them out. “I, uh. I’ve only ever lead.” 

“Then lead,” And Eliot placed one hand on Quentin’s shoulder, and grabbed his tensed hand with the other. “I’m flexible.”  

Quentin cleared his throat and let his hand rest on Eliot’s hip, and after a moment, they fell into the same gentle rhythm of the couples around them.

“You know,” Eliot whispered, tucking an errant strand of hair behind Quentin’s ear. “I think Aunt Lou and I are best friends now.” 

Across the room, the smoky-voiced pianist played away, and hummed the melody to a song Quentin couldn’t name. Something old and French, he thought, while trying not to think about how warm he was all of a sudden. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. She gave me her card. And invited me to her Fourth of July picnic.” 

Quentin huffed, frowned. “I didn’t even know she had a Fourth of July picnic.” 

“Well don’t feel too left out. She said I could bring a plus one.” 

“You should take Julia. People would lose their minds.” 

“Yeah, well. If she can’t make it I’ll give you a call.” Eliot yawned, then, and dropped his forehead onto Quentin’s shoulder, closing any distance that had been left between them. “ _ God _ I’m tired.”

“Still?” 

“Yeah. Still.” 

Even after Eliot had been declared fully recovered from his encounter with Margo’s axe, he still wasn't quite back to his usual self. It still took him a while to rebound from busy days; he still fell asleep earlier, still had to work to keep up with Margo as she marched around Whitespire. Quentin had noticed it almost immediately, and that it bothered Eliot immensely, but had never brought it up. Because things were normal, right? 

Quentin took a deep breath, and looked at the ceiling. “Do you want to—”

“No, I’m….I’m fine.” Eliot began humming along with the pianist, and Quentin could feel his chest vibrating against him. 

“Hey,” quietly. “What’s this song called?” 

“Um….huh.” Eliot furrowed his brow against Quentin’s shoulder. “I can’t remember.”

“Me neither.” 

“I think it’s French.” 

“Yeah, me too.” 

And then the lovely old French song ended, and people shuffled around them, and another equally lovely and old and unnamable song began, and Eliot never lifted his head. 

“You’re right.” Eliot said, still quiet, as he curled his fingers into the fabric of Quentin’s jacket.

“Hm?” 

“It’s….been weird. And it is, kinda, my fault. And I think today only made it weirder.” 

Quentin felt his stomach drop. “No— _ no _ , today was—”

“I just….” Eliot sighed, warm on Quentin’s neck. “I miss you.” 

Quentin swallowed, and closed his eyes, and tried to laugh, his tie suddenly too tight again. “But I’m right here.” 

“But you’re not.”

“I  _ am— _ ”

“You’ve been pretending, Q. I can tell. I have, too, a little. Acting like things are all back to normal again.” 

Quentin tried to steady his breathing, to steady himself, and realized that the hand on Eliot’s hip had turned into a fist full of his shirt at the small of his back. “Things are normal. We’re both….above ground. Piloting our own bodies. It doesn’t get more normal than that….for us, at least.” 

Eliot shook his head slightly, his hair tickling Quentin’s cheek. “Then why is today the first time we’ve really talked in three months?”

“That’s not….” But then Quentin thought on it, and came up empty, and his heart sank. 

“What happened?” 

“You know what happened,” and it came out as a croak.

“Not really. Not while I was gone. Every time I try to talk to Margo about it she gets this…. _ terrible _ look on her face that I just can’t live with.” He paused, fixed his grip in Quentin’s hand. “I know things were like. Massively, horrendously fucked up and I don’t need to know—I don’t  _ want _ to know, like, all the gorey details, not—not right now, at least. I just….what happened? To you. That made everything….weird.” 

Quentin tried to shove down the lump in his throat, to blink his eyes dry. He breathed deep and tried not to think about the pleasantly heady familiarity of Eliot’s cologne. Tried to calm the shake in his hand, still white-knuckled clinging to Eliot’s. 

“I….I don’t know where to start.” Tried, and failed, to keep his voice even. “Hey, uh—” And Eliot finally lifted his head off of Quentin’s shoulder to look at him. “I can’t…we can’t have this conversation here.” 

“Okay….okay, yeah sure. Let’s, uh. Let’s get out of here.”

And Quentin patted his pockets, finding the room key he had picked up before the ceremony, while Eliot grabbed his jacket from the table. He scanned the room, mostly quiet, and waved to Tiffany, who waved back lazily, her head on Rick’s shoulder. Eliot returned, his jacket folded over his arm, and reached once again for Quentin’s hand. 

They slipped, quiet and unnoticed, out of the ballroom and through the palacial first floor of the clubhouse. Past book-lined rooms full of men smoking cigars, and lobbies with walls covered in golfing trophies. Past portraits of senators and enormous windows that looked out over the moon-washed greens. Wordlessly up two flights of carpeted stairs to the guest rooms, and down a long, turning hall. 

“Of course,” and Quentin broke the tense silence between them as the door swung open on a spacious room with a huge television, yet more floor-to-ceiling windows, and a single queen-sized bed, piled high with white pillows.

Eliot snorted, shook his head, but entered—Quentin immediately and self-consciously dropping his hand—and opened the closet to hang up his jacket.

“Wait…” He felt around the lining—shiny burgundy satin—for the inside pocket, before fishing out the ring he had stowed there that afternoon. “Oh thank god. She would’ve murdered me.” 

Quentin watched as Eliot slid the ring back onto his finger, and immediately he looked more right, the simple silver band balanced against the white stone signet ring on his other hand. 

He handed him his own jacket to put up, and Eliot loosed his cravat and draped it over the closet rod, pointing at Quentin’s tie. “Do you want to be done with that thing, or what?” 

Quentin didn’t respond, distracted completely by the silver glint off of Eliot’s left hand. 

“Hey,” and Eliot grabbed the tail of it—also shiny, also burgundy, total coincidence—between two fingers. “That damn tie. Gimme.” 

Quentin felt himself flush, stepping back from Eliot’s reach, and then his hands couldn’t move fast enough. He loosened the knot and lifted his collar, and tugged it, still in a loop, over his head. “I think it’s just been a while.”

Eliot nodded, rolled his eyes, and undid the knot carefully—the proper way, so it didn’t wrinkle or put too much strain on the thread—and hung it next to his cravat between their coats. 

And Quentin still couldn’t take his eyes off of Eliot’s finger. 

“I think….I think I miss being married.” Quentin said, and watched Eliot’s hands falter, just half of a second, as he opened the minibar next to the television and removed a can of sparkling water.  

He handed it to Quentin—”Drink this.”—took out a ginger ale for himself, and collapsed, face first, open-armed and sighing onto the bed, kicking off his shoes behind him.

“I’m serious.” Quentin popped his can open, sipped at the bubbles. “Marriage was….really nice.” He stood next to the bed, emptying his pockets onto the nightstand. 

Eliot turned to look at him, half his mouth still pressed into one of the soft pillows. “I dunno,” and he twisted his wrist to look at his ring, too, the ginger ale sloshing in the can. “Fen’s wonderful—I love her, don’t get me wrong—but I can’t say I get much more out of this arrangement than I would from like….a  _ really _ complicated roommate situation.” 

Quentin chuckled, sipped. “Poor Fen—”

“ _ Poor Fen, my ass _ . There is nothing I can give that girl that Margo isn’t equipped to handle  _ in fucking spades _ , okay? She’s fine—they’re both totally, completely fine without my—” and he gesticulated vaguely with his ginger ale. “….Intervention. I’m just surprised it took them so long.”

“Nothing brings people together quite like the threat of being deposed, I guess”

“Exactly. Now would you sit down, you’re making me nervous.” He rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “Also open this for me.” 

“Oh yeah, now that it’s thoroughly shaken?”

“Please.”

“Just have some of mine.” Quentin offered up his can of seltzer. 

“Okay, two things—” Eliot stretched, placing his ginger ale on the unoccupied nightstand. “First, I’d rather die than drink La Croix. Second, just  _ sit the fuck down _ . Before you spill that heinous beverage.” 

Quentin eyed the space in the middle of the bed—the now-rumpled comforter, the now-rumpled front of Eliot’s shirt—and then perched on the very edge of the mattress, and started pulling off his shoes. 

And then he froze, as Eliot’s warm hand landed on the middle of his back, and began rubbing slow circles. 

“Hey, uh.” He swallowed, felt his pulse in his throat. “What are you doing?” 

“Nothin’. You just looked tense.” 

“Oh.” Quentin sat up straight, leaning forward slightly, so Eliot’s fingers could only barely brush against him. “I’m okay.” 

“No you’re not.” The slow circles became a single finger, tracing figure-eights in the small of his back. “ _ We _ might not have been legally married but you were, like, my Stedman for longer than Stedman’s been Stedman, so I know—”

“Um….seriously,” and Quentin shifted again, his face hot.

Eliot’s finger stopped, and Quentin heard it drop to the comforter, then felt as he shifted again, to lay on his stomach, feet hanging off the end of the bed and a single pillow under his cheek. “What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“I’ve been…” He took a deep breath, scoffed. “We were draped all over each other all night, Q, and now you’re getting prudish on me all of a sudden?” 

“That was. You know. For everybody.” Quentin cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck, stared at the blinking time on the nightstand alarm clock. Just past eleven. “That was for their benefit. Plus I was pretty drunk before—” 

Eliot, slow and inscrutable, “For… _ their _ benefit?” 

“Yeah, uh. You know.” He swallowed again, the lump in his throat unmoving. “Part of the whole thing, right? The, the—the big act. Like, you were in Hungarian jail and I was doing research in Tibet and, and….and we were engaged….so we were attached at the hip, you know, it was all for. For them.”

He stopped, and felt the mattress shift again, as Eliot crawled up onto his knees behind him, leaning against him so Quentin could feel the buckle of his belt in the middle of his back. And then his hands were on Quentin’s shoulders—fingers pressing into muscle, working at the knots there, sending a shiver down his spine. 

Quentin bit his lip—face and neck and chest  _ burning _ —and his eyelids fluttered closed, and he sighed so deep he almost moaned. 

“Okay, well.” And Eliot bent down, his nose almost pressed into Quentin’s hair. “And I’ll stop right now if you tell me to, I promise, but. This….” He pulled back on Quentin’s collar, and then his right hand was on the skin of Quentin’s neck, squeezing slowly, while his left hand combed lightly through his hair. “This is for  _ your _ benefit. Now talk to me.  _ Please _ .”  

Quentin, breathy and embarrassed: “— _ Do not stop _ —” 

“Okay.” 

He tried and failed to keep his breathing steady, grunting softly as Eliot ground his knuckles into his back, his eyes still closed. “I had to….” Another shaky exhale, as Eliot reached a hand around his neck, undid the top few buttons of Quentin’s shirt, and exposed yet more of his skin to the cool, dry air of the room. “I had to look at you.” He dropped his chin to his chest. 

Eliot paused for a second, the pressure in his fingers at the sides of Quentin’s neck letting up slightly. 

“I had to look at you while it— _ ah _ —killed people.” Quentin dug his nails into his knees, his eyes still closed. “I had to look at you....after it told me you were dead. And then— _ oh _ —” A knuckle under his left shoulder blade; Quentin clenching his jaw. “And then I knew you weren’t dead. But I still had to watch it—still—knowing it wasn’t you. But that it  _ had you. _ And that if it died you were gonna— _ oh fuck _ —” Quentin’s eyes flew open and he gripped the fabric of his pants, as Eliot dug one elbow into the middle of his spine and yanked back hard on his upper arm and—and something  _ popped _ . 

And Quentin exhaled, feeling suddenly loose and languid and like he could have melted—melted into Eliot and the white comforter beneath them. Melted through the beige carpet and through the floor. Melted down two floors and into a puddle in the middle of the ballroom where the reception, surely, continued. 

Quentin sat there, taking slow and deliberate breaths, as Eliot ran his palms up and down his back and across his ribs. He breathed, and tried not to think about how long it had been since the last time Eliot had—bare hands on bare shoulders—had done  _ that thing _ that just drained all the tension and worry and pressure and—

“Q?” He didn’t move, just rested his hands on Quentin’s shoulders, half inside his shirt.

“I think I knew I was gonna die….” He could hear Eliot stop breathing behind him. “And I had no way of knowing if you were gonna be okay. I didn’t know if I could believe Everett. Or if Lipson could fix you, or what and—” He ground his knuckles into his eyes.

“Hey, Q, look at me.” 

“—And then by some big cosmic miracle or, or—cosmic fuck up or, by a fucking— _ cosmic clerical error _ ….I came back?” He sniffed, coughed a single laugh. “And I just wanted things to be  _ normal _ , right? Whatever the fuck that ever meant? And, and—and I don’t  _ blame _ Alice for trying to move on or—or for not having the energy to deal with. With me, I guess? And, and Julia deserves all the time in the world to go and finally figure out her magic and everything and. And I get it, but. But I worked so hard, for so long, to just have—” And his voice cracked, and he felt Eliot shift to sit next to him. “—And I had to  _ look at you _ —”

“Hey, c’mon—”

“—And there’s  _ still _ times when I’m afraid it’s not actually you, and—”

“ _ Just look at me. _ ” 

Quentin turned, and met his eye for a heartbeat, before looking down, blinking. He was cold, all of a sudden, with his shirt half off his shoulders, and without Eliot’s hands on him. 

“It’s….” Eliot took a deep breath. “Not….normal. But. That’s okay.” 

Quentin glanced over, and watched Eliot’s hands—steady, compared to his own, twisting nervously. Through the thin walls, he heard the tell-tale patter of children running down a hotel hallway, followed by chastising parents. The air conditioning in the room kicked on, and Quentin shivered, tugged his collar back around his neck, and began buttoning his shirt, still looking down. 

“I….lied,” Eliot started. His hands became fists in his lap, but his voice was calm. “I lied, to you, today, and—” He inhaled. “And I don’t feel bad about it. Because I’m also….an asshole.” 

Quentin shook his head and scowled, frustrated, down at his knees. “We can’t…. _ both _ self-flagellate, here—”

“Jesus, I’m not self-flagellating—I’m not  _ apologizing _ for anything, I’m trying to—to be fucking honest with you, okay?” 

Quentin tilted his chin towards him, and glanced at Eliot through narrowed eyes, like he was looking at the sun.

“I don’t….give a shit. About fooling your family. Or trying to be more entertaining than Julia. Or even….making a stupid college fling jealous.” Eliot closed his eyes and grimaced before taking a deep breath, and smoothing his face. He placed a barely trembling hand lightly on Quentin’s shoulder. “I came because I wanted to spend time with you. And I suggested we lie to everyone, because.” He swallowed, furrowed his brow, never broke eye contact. “Because—”

“El—”

“Because the last few months have been miserable.” Eliot stood from the bed and began pacing, shoulders tight and hands clenched, while Quentin watched him, startled and unsure, talking like he was giving a lecture. “Because it was a year trapped in there with nothing to do but think, and it was a month finally free but thinking you were dead, and—” Eliot stopped with a lurch, and his hands were at the back of his head, fingers knotted in his hair as he stared out the window. “— _ God, _ Q, thinking  _ I got you killed _ , you have  _ no idea _ —” 

Quentin could see Eliot breathing, his chest rising and falling fast, betraying any sense of levelness he may have been trying to project. He tried to make out Eliot’s face in the reflection of the window, but couldn’t. 

“After you came back there was just…. _ so much _ to say and do and figure out but there was never a second that felt  _ right _ . To just. Have  _ that _ fucking conversation, I guess.”

“I’m sorry….”

“ _ Please— _ ” His voice rose, but only barely, and Eliot spun on his heels, his hands open in front of him. “Don’t you fucking dare apologize for surviving,  _ holy shit _ .” He held Quentin’s gaze for a few seconds, silently, before turning again to stride across the room, arms crossed over his chest. 

Quentin thought about those first few days back from the Underworld—a place that, infuriating to everyone but him, he could not remember at all—and it came back to him in flashes. Mostly Julia—and Margo, strangely enough; and Fen, sometimes; Penny, occasionally—hovering around him while he laid on his bed in the cottage, the world swimming around him, everything too loud and too bright and too much. Between the aggressive caretaking, there were images of Alice coming in to see him when no one else was around, sitting on the edge of his mattress without touching him, and telling him in a distant, watery, apologetic voice about her new job with the Library.  

And between those moments—when Julia and Margo weren’t pouring Gatorade and chicken soup down his throat, and Alice wasn’t trying, in her own careful way, to say goodbye—there was Eliot. Eliot, so distinctly and purely  _ him _ that Quentin couldn’t believe that face had ever been the monster’s. Eliot, looking thrilled and hopeful and terrified. Eliot, also sitting on the edge of his bed, hip against hip, saying nothing, rubbing Quentin’s forehead and holding his hands. 

And then….there was normalcy. There were the boring-normal of politics in Fillory, and the frustrating-normal of research for class, and the comforting-normal of sitting in the cottage together and not saying the things that didn’t need to be said. 

But, then again, maybe they did. 

“What….” Quentin swallowed, and caught Eliot mid-stride, his steps stuttering. “ _ Why _ did you want to….do all this. Today?” 

Eliot turned to face him, and he looked exhausted. He looked drained and drawn and defeated, the circles under his eyes as deep and dark as bruises. Like he’d been in a fist-fight. Like he’d  _ lost _ a fist-fight. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw. 

“I wanted an excuse to touch you,” he said, coolly, staring pointedly not at Quentin, but at the bathroom door, a few feet to the left. “Which is shitty, but it’s true.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

There was a beat that went on for a lifetime, silent and brutal. And then the air conditioner turned off, and it only got quieter. Quentin wanted more than anything to be able to read Eliot’s mind, to decipher what his stubbornly stoic face meant as the unbearable stillness somehow dragged on. 

“I’m.” Quentin watched Eliot’s eyes close, like he was bracing himself for impact. “I’m.” He huffed, rubbed his face. “Good. I’m good. It was good. It was nice. I—I missed it,  _ god _ , you’re right I—” Eliot opened his eyes slowly. “You’re  _ right _ . You’re right there and I still miss you—I didn’t  _ know— _ ” Quentin stood from his corner of the mattress, sat back down, stood again. Sat, again.

Eliot sat on the opposite corner, one leg over the other, his shoulders slouched. 

“I didn’t know. That you—”

“I do….still.”

“Oh.” 

“I had a lot of time to think about. Things.”

_ This isn’t the time, _ Quentin thought, but said it anyway: “What was it like in there?” Immediately he realized that it sounded like he was trying to deflect. If that’s what he was doing, though, Eliot didn’t seem to mind.

“Mostly boring. Partially horrifying.” He laughed once, cold and humorless, and folded his hands in his lap. Quentin noticed, watching—the crossed legs, the tucked-in arms—that Eliot was trying to make himself smaller. “A lot of sitting around and waiting for the worst. A lot of thinking, like I said. A little bit of prolonged, worst-nightmare exposure therapy.”

Quentin nodded, then—

“I was pretty sure….I wasn’t going to make it.” It came out almost flat, Eliot speaking to the floor. “Things got pretty grim in there. Near the end. And, uh, I was obviously out of it, but I could tell that Lipson wasn’t exactly optimistic. So.” His foot bounced nervously in place as he talked. “So I had a hot second to come to terms with some things, right?” He coughed. “So when the happiest memories of my life were being  _ literally _ shredded into ribbons around me….I promised….that if I actually woke up on the other side of it, that I would….I would be around more, mostly, for Fen. And I’d—I’d be more careful. Because Margo doesn’t deserve half the shit I put her through.” 

“Margo’s strong—”

“Yeah, but she shouldn’t have to fucking worry about me, like she does. Not  _ constantly _ , at least.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And….” He sighed, cracked his knuckles. “And it was easy. To come up with that stuff and….and be  _ resolved _ to it, when I was so, so sure that it was done with me,  _ the second _ I was kicked back out after talking to you.” Quentin could hear the effort he was putting into keeping his breathing even. “When I was so sure I’d never see you again….In that second it was just,  _ so _ easy to promise myself that—” Eliot swallowed hard, looked at the ceiling. “That if lived….” He bit his tongue, looked at Quentin. “I’d tell you.”

Quentin’s chest ached to think about Eliot thinking about  _ that _ and—and he didn’t know where to look and he didn’t know what to do with his hands and Eliot’s voice….It was, somehow, still so measured and grounded and comforting and—and it was unfair, that he could still do that, still be dignified and diplomatic while Quentin felt like he was bleeding out, like he was—

“Tell me what?” Quentin stared straight ahead, into his blurry reflection in the huge TV. And then he watched the blur that was Eliot reach an unfocused arm out across the foot of the bed. And then he felt a warm hand cover his own, flat and tense on top of the comforter. And then Quentin looked down, at the silver band on Eliot’s finger resting on top of his knuckles. And then he looked up. 

Eliot didn’t look less tired, but he didn’t look less focused either. 

“I’d tell you. That I’ve loved you….for fifty four years, ten months….a week, and,” —He glanced quickly over to the still-blinking alarm clock on the nightstand. Not yet midnight.— “Three days.” Quentin held his breath, pulse pounding, and watched as Eliot’s jaw clenched. “I’d tell you that I haven’t gone a single day without regretting what I said to you. And that….” And Eliot shifted, leaned forward, placed his other hand on Quentin’s cheek, his thumb at the corner of his mouth. “That….I was sure I was going to die….and this was still all I could think about….” 

Quentin beat him to it—falling forward, practically, eyes closed and lips just barely parted—to press a single, blind kiss to the side of Eliot’s mouth. His fingers were still curled tight into the mattress. Eliot’s hand had slipped, ghosting down from his cheek, to cup his neck, wrist against collarbone and thumb against his throat. 

Quentin exhaled, pulling his chin back, and pressed his forehead to Eliot’s, nose into his cheek. “I…” and his jaw dropped involuntarily, thrilling as Eliot pulled himself closer, and wrapped both hands around the back of Quentin’s neck. “I’ve been…I wanted to do that all night.”

And then Eliot leaned into him, covering Quentin’s mouth with his own, tongue sliding past his lips, his teeth—kissing him deep and dizzy and breathless. Quentin finally released his fists full of comforter, and scrambled, halting and desperate, to cling to the front of Eliot’s shirt. In the back of his mind, Quentin still found it all so unfair—the ever-present contrast between his own scrambling, stuttering need, and Eliot’s unwavering surety.

But then Eliot’s teeth were in Quentin’s bottom lip, and his fingers were wound in the hair at the back of Quentin’s head, tugging gently. Quentin gasped, neck arching into Eliot’s grasp, gaze tilted up to meet his. 

_ It isn’t fair _ , Quentin thought, staring up, wordless and wonderstruck, into Eliot’s soft, beautiful, tired eyes.  _ That I missed this for so long. It isn't fair— _

“I wanted to do that,” Eliot whispered into Quentin’s ear, before pressing a chaste, teasing kiss to the hinge of his jaw. “For two fucking years.” 

Quentin’s stomach turned, and he made an ugly, involuntary noise in the back of his throat. His hands flew up to cover his eyes, and were it possible for him to get redder, he would have. 

“Q, hey hey hey, what’s wrong?” Eliot’s brow furrowed, and he pet Quentin’s hair. “What is it?”

Quentin turned, and flung himself dramatically backwards onto the bed, a forearm slung over his eyes. “Oh my god,” he sighed, an edge to his voice. 

Eliot laid down next to him, one hand propping up his chin, the other flat in the middle of Quentin’s chest. “What?” 

Quentin lifted his arm, tucked it behind his head. HIs eyes were wet and red at the edges, but he was smiling, broad and stupid and lovely, as he turned his head. “I thought you were mad at me.” And he sniffed, and sighed again. 

“I mean,” and Eliot relaxed, sliding his fingers between the buttons of Quentin’s shirt. Quentin shivered. “I was a little bit pissed that you went and got yourself fucking killed.” 

“Again….sorry.” 

“Again….” Eliot leaned down, and kissed Quentin’s forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose. “Don’t apologize.” With what looked like a herculean effort, Eliot dragged himself up and reached across to the lamp on the nightstand, turning it off, and collapsing finally on top of the pillows. “C’mere.”

Quentin smiled again—kept smiling—and turned, crawled over to tuck his face in the crook of Eliot’s neck. He closed his eyes, kissed Eliot’s throat, wrapped his arms around him. 

They didn’t even bother getting under the soft white comforter. 

\- 

The phone on the nightstand rang at nine minutes after eight in the morning

It took Quentin a minute to free an arm from the tangle he and Eliot had become. They were still both in their clothes from the night before, shirts half-unbuttoned and irredeemably wrinkled. Inches from his own face, Eliot frowned in his sleep, his eyelashes fluttering. 

“Mhm?” Quentin mumbled into the phone. 

“Mr. Coldwater, this is your scheduled wake up call—”  _ Jesus, Tiff _ . “—There will be a champagne breakfast courtesy of the new Mr. and Mrs. Briar served at nine-thirty in the blue dining room.” 

“M’kay. Thanks.” Quentin hung up, yawned, dropped the phone onto the bed next to him. His other arm was still pinned under Eliot’s side, and he was boxed in almost entirely by his limbs—one of Eliot’s arms under his head, one hand curled against his chest, a leg slung over his hip. 

The sky through the part in the curtains was blue, and a broad line of yellowish morning sunlight fell into the room, across the bed and into his eyes. He squinted into it, lowered his head, successfully found an angle that put Eliot’s shoulder in the way of the light. He tried, groggily, lazily, in the still too-cool room, to press in closer to him, to find more points of contact. And then he just breathed for a few moments, slow and deep. The room, in all of its white, bright, airy, Victorian luxury, felt almost unreal. The day before—with its reunions and celebrations and reminders of people he hadn’t known he was missing—felt  _ very _ unreal. 

The night before.  _ Unreal _ . 

But Eliot, that morning, warm under him and around him and against him—that was real. And he never wanted to leave it. But. 

“Mmm….”  Eliot hummed, shifted, yawned, pressed his forehead against Quentin’s. “What time’s breakfast?” he asked, eyes still closed. 

Quentin laughed, small and quiet. “Nine-thirty.” 

Eliot frowned again, and lifted the hand that had been resting on Quentin’s chest to rub his eye. Mumbling, “What time’s it now?” 

“Like eight-twenty.” 

“God.” He draped his arm over Quentin’s shoulder, fingers in his hair, and slowly opened his eyes. “Oh good.” 

“Hm?” 

“It’s you.” Eliot smiled, and tried futilely to pull Quentin closer—both of them chuckling—until he was flat on his back and Quentin was half on top of him, his face in Eliot’s shoulder. They were still for a few minutes, both comfortable and warm and deeply content, before the thin walls began to reveal the noises of other guests starting their days. The shower ran in the room next to them, and the ice machine rumbled down the hall, and children once again sprinted between rooms.

“I still need a toothbrush,” Quentin sighed, showing no signs of doing anything about it. 

“I need coffee.” And then he realized Eliot hadn’t done himself the same courtesy of forcibly un-drunking himself the night before. 

Quentin rolled over onto his back, sat up, stretched. “That’s the point of brunch.” He buttoned his shirt and pulled on his shoes. “That, and more of that…. _ really _ good champagne.” 

“Mm. Hair of the dog.” 

Quentin stood and stretched again, twisting his back until it cracked, and thinking fondly—almost nostalgically—about Eliot’s knuckles against his spine. When he turned around, Eliot was still starfished across the bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly, hair mussed. 

Quentin felt his heart skip a beat, and in the back of his mind, and echo:  _ It’s you _ .

“I’m gonna go check with the front desk. About that toothbrush.” 

“Kay.” 

“I’ll be right back.” 

“Kay.” 

“Don’t, like, lock me out.” 

“Kay.” 

“Uh….Love you.” 

Eliot didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled, and Quentin could see a light pink flush rise in his cheeks. “…Kay.” 

\- 

So they freshened up—elbows knocking together while they shared the bathroom mirror, Eliot humming that lovely, nameless French song—and tried to make themselves as presentable as possible, unshaven and in rumpled, slept-in shirts. When Quentin went for his tie out of the closet, Eliot waved his hand away, grabbing it himself and rolling it up to stick in the pocket of his jacket. “Don’t even bother, it’s just breakfast. Also, I had a great fuck-with-your-family idea yesterday.” 

“I thought we were over that.”

“Yeah but it would still be fun.” Eliot raised his eyebrows conspiratorially.

“No, c’mon. Let’s just. Be normal.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

And then he pulled on his jacket and Eliot convinced him to leave the top two buttons of his shirt undone—even though it did nothing to hide how wrinkled he was and  _ in fact _ maybe even brought attention to it—and then Eliot did something elegant and impossible with his cravat, which he didn’t even need to look in a mirror to do, and then.

“Hey, your ring.” Quentin took Eliot’s right hand as they walked down the long, turning hallway of the upper guest room floor. They were running a little late.

“Carefully stowed, relax. You’re family’s nosy. They’d notice a wedding band that wasn’t there last night.” 

“No, no, right—I meant your other one.” Quentin lifted their joined hands.

“Oh. Yeah, I have it. Don’t worry.” And Eliot kissed the back of Quentin’s knuckles, and they hurried along to brunch. 

It was for the most part, Quentin realized, the same as the reception. The same kind of very nice champagne, the same warm and cheery familiarity, the same near-compulsive physical closeness to Eliot. It was different, though, in the way he breathed, and the way he thought—or didn’t think—about everything he did. The night before had been fun, and the persistent touch—as he could admit to himself now, in the light of day—had been nice. But he had been thinking so hard about every word, every move, every glance, that he could barely remember most of his conversations. He had been so worried about maintaining whatever lie they were living in for the moment that he had failed entirely to actually catch up with his family. 

So he sat across from a great-aunt and uncle, and between Eliot and the nine-year-old daughter of one of Rick’s cousins, and he drank mimosas and stole fruit off of Eliot’s plate and asked questions. His aunt and uncle told him about their retirement on Lake Michigan, and the daughter listed off books she liked, and Tiffany made the rounds up and down the long tables, stopping to tease the two of them about leaving the party so early. 

“I’m an old man,” Quentin told her, leaning back in his chair and smiling.

“You’ve always been an old man, Q.” 

“He was also  _ very drunk _ ,” Eliot interjected, mouthing the last two words for the benefit of the nine-year-old. 

“Mhm.” And Tiffany looked down at Eliot’s hand on Quentin’s knee, and grinned at him, like she knew something. “Well, sleepy old man or not, I’m glad you came.” She squeezed his shoulder.

“Me too.”

“Yes. Now. Please eat more bacon.” And she turned to the girl next to him. “I don’t know why no one is eating the bacon! Do you want to come with me to get more bacon?” And she grabbed her hand, shuffling her off towards the buffet, and out of earshot. 

“It’s turkey bacon,” Eliot said, forking a limp off-pink strip on his own plate. “What does she expect?” 

The great-uncle snorted into his coffee, which made his wife laugh, dropping a cherry tomato off the end of her fork that rolled across the table and into Eliot’s lap, which made him laugh, too. 

Quentin stayed reclined in his chair and watched, smiling, as Eliot and his uncle had a very real and intense exchange about the apparent crime against humanity that is turkey bacon. His aunt cut in eventually, and the conversation drifted between the merits of heirloom tomatoes, and which currently-airing cooking show was the best, and whether or not stunt casting on Broadway could be creatively justified. Silent and content, Quentin realized that, without being asked a single direct question about himself, Eliot was finally being honest with his family. They both were.

Later, the last of the wedding guests filed out of the club, shaking hands with Rick and hugging Tiffany as the the valets brought cars around, and taxis from the train station lined up behind them.

Quentin had just extricated himself from Tiffany’s grip when he noticed that Eliot wasn’t at the curb waiting for the Lyft he had supposedly called, but was instead walking purposefully across the side lawn towards the gazebo from the ceremony.

“Eliot?” he called, and Eliot turned to face him, walking backwards and squinting into the sunlight. “What are you doing?” 

“Come here! I gotta show you something!” and he stopped to let Quentin catch up with him. 

Quentin was hyper-aware of all of his relatives watching him as he traipsed across the dewy grass. Eliot’s hands were on his hips while he waited, backlit by the sun reflected off the lake. Quentin traipsed faster. 

“Seriously,” he said, standing close and talking quietly even though there was no way for the rest of the car line to hear either of them. “What are you up to?” 

“I told you before. I have a great idea.” 

“I don’t think—” but Eliot grabbed Quentin by the wrist and dragged him the last few yards to the gazebo, before depositing him in the middle of it, where the pastor had stood the afternoon before. 

The flowers were still hanging from the roof, limp but just as fragrant, white and green petals falling like snow onto the wooden floor. Quentin crossed his arms and looked behind him at the cluster of people standing idly around the driveway. It was mostly younger people waiting for Ubers, the older crowd having been shuffled into their cars by the valets almost immediately. Much to his embarrassment, Tiffany and Rick were also standing under the portico at the top of the stairs, leaning on the railing, watching him. He waved, then cringed, broad and theatrical, and shrugged dramatically enough for her to see that he also didn’t know what was going on, and then he frowned as Tiffany lifted her hands off the railing to cover her mouth. 

When Quentin turned around, Eliot wasn’t there. And then he looked down. 

In the middle of the gazebo, flower petals in his hair and white stone ring held up between his thumb and forefinger, Eliot was on one knee in front of him. 

Quentin’s face went numb, and his arms dropped to his side. “El….”

“So. I came up with this, just,  _ incredible _ plan while we were in line for cake yesterday—”

“What the  _ fuck _ are you doing?” 

“—Because I thought it would be funny to watch your cousin squirm, which—” Eliot leaned to one side, glancing at the crowd in the driveway. “—it still completely is, by the way. And obviously the plan was to spout a bunch of nonsense that they couldn’t hear and then talk you into storming off dramatically and refusing to mention me to your family ever again—”

Quentin scoffed, crossed his arms again. “Not gonna say I’m not thinking about it.” 

“Sure, fair, absolutely,  _ but _ ….” Eliot shifted on his knees, a little bit unsteady. “But I’d much rather you pretend to say yes.”

“Right,” Quentin said through his teeth, but heart was pounding in his chest. “And let Tiff murder me in a gazebo?” 

Eliot looked up at him, his eyes still tired and his shirt still rumbled, and grinned like an idiot. “I’ll make it worth it.” 

“ _ What _ ?” 

And then Eliot cleared his throat and straightened his back and squared his shoulders, and lifted the ring a little higher. “Quentin Makepeace Coldwater, I would—”

“ _ Oh Jesus fuck _ —”

“This is happening ok just shut up for a second.” Eliot shook his head, and a few white petals dislodged themselves. “Quentin Coldwater….I would like to marry you. Because….Because I have that right, and because you miss being married and….because I miss….you.” He coughed again, and blinked a few times, and suddenly Quentin’s eyes were also wet. “You should marry me because it would be nice to have a name for whatever this thing is we’re doing now. And because we could probably get two weddings out of the deal, and because we already know all the stuff about each other that you’re supposed to learn after you get married, and it would be nice for tax reasons—”

Quentin snorted and rubbed his eyes.

“—and because. Because.” Eliot swallowed, taking a deep breath. “Because I can’t….do it anymore. The whole….living without you….thing. Because I’m absolutely fucking terrified of how much I love you. Because I missed this chance one too many times and—”

“Please get up.” 

Eliot blinked at him, mouth open, ring still in hand, and hauled himself to his feet, standing as close to Quentin as possible without actually touching him. Quentin looked up at him, then, hands still in fists at his side. 

“How serious are you being right now?”

“What?” 

“Because this is  _ a lot _ if you’re still just….trying freak out my relatives.” Quentin clenched his jaw, tried not to let his face betray the hot, confusing mixture of hope and fear and excitement and anxiety boiling in his stomach. 

Eliot lifted a hand, rested it on Quentin’s waist, and closed the space between them. “I am exactly as serious as you want me to be.” 

“Okay,” Quentin whispered.

“....Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Quentin closed his eyes, shook his head, laughed. “You gotta….actually ask, though.” 

Eliot sighed, reached down to hold Quentin’s hands, pressed his face into his hair. “Quentin Coldwater, will you marry me?”

“Yeah. But.” And he sniffed, smiling. “That ring’s gonna be too big for me.” And he laughed again as Eliot tried to put it on the wrong hand.

“It’s what I had to work with.” And both of Eliot’s hands came up to hold Quentin’s face, and he was kissing him, slow and sweet, still laughing, while Quentin wrapped his arms around Eliot’s waist. 

And then there was a high-pitched “ _ Woo! _ ” and a smattering of applause from across the lawn. Quentin pulled back, and buried his face in Eliot’s shoulder, his ears red and his cheeks hot. 

“Oh shit,” he mumbled, Eliot chuckling and rubbing his back with one hand, waving to the crowd with the other. 

“What now?”

“Tiff is still going to kill us.”

Eliot kissed his forehead, and began the long sunny march back across the lawn. “I think we can take her.”  

 

**Author's Note:**

> for more completely unrelated content check me out @ two-crabs on tumblr!


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